


The Devil You Know

by Arcawolf



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Bondage, Dark, F/F, Homura has issues, Madoka's going to need therapy after this, Mistaken Identity, Post-Rebellion Story, Soul Gem Play, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcawolf/pseuds/Arcawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Homura walked closer. Madoka recoiled instinctively. It was a law of the universe that Akemi Homura would never hurt Kaname Madoka. But the problem was that Homura currently didn’t see her as such, but as the Law of Cycles: a being connected at the core to Madoka, but was not truly Madoka. To Homura, the Law of Cycles was another creature entirely, one seeking to devour and imprison the girl whose face she wore. </p><p>And Homura was not known for taking <i>any</i> threat to her only friend lightly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to do with this one. I might delete it just because the fact that I wrote this kind of creeps me out. It already took a week just to convince myself to go for it and post this.
> 
> Anyways, this was inspired by some theories I read that suggested Homura might not see Godoka and "her" Madoka as the same being, or that she resented Godoka on a subconscious level.

She awoke in a dark, lonely place that seemed to stretch on with no end. There was no visible ground, yet Madoka found her cheek still squashed up against something solid when she could feel again. That wasn’t all she felt. Her aching, tight muscles moaned and asked her to fall back into unconsciousness; there wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t sore. Even her brain was fuzzy and slow, and it took several forceful blinks before she gathered enough of her bearings to lift her head.

The darkness went on forever. Not a single shred of light pierced the void, but Madoka knew she could still see. There just wasn’t anything _to_ see. Even the ground was the exact same as what she saw in front of her. It was cold though, and a welcome balm as she laid there on her stomach.

Madoka took a deep breath; the air tasted stale. She laid her head against the ground once more, and stayed there, listening to her beating heart as it vibrated through her body. Her breathing seemed thunderous in the empty space.

She laid there for what seemed to be days. Maybe weeks. But finally, she made the decision to move. Her body cried out in protest, but Madoka grit her teeth and shouldered on. She pushed herself up –

A sharp tug against her right wrist nearly sent her smashing back into the ground.

Panting, propped up on her forearms, she stared at the offending wrist. In the darkness, she had missed it, but a black chord – no, _ribbon_ – wound itself around her wrist and anchored it to the ground, granting it a couple of inches of movement. Another tethered her left wrist in the same way. The ribbons weren’t precisely black, but rather had a sheen to them, as if fashioned from the cosmos themselves.

A quick test told her that other ribbons restrained her ankles. Unlike her wrists though, these had a lot of leeway. She could pull them up enough to push herself to her hands and knees, but not enough to sit properly. And her bound wrists assured that she could go no higher. Now might have been the time to panic, but Madoka felt rather calm. She wasn’t exactly a regular human after all, and all she had to do was –

As she wrapped the ribbons in her magic, not only did they resist her enchantment, but a last, fifth ribbon made itself known. Fastened around her neck like a noose, the ribbon tightened in warning the moment her magic showed itself.

She swallowed hard. Her magic flowed back into her. She craned her neck as far as she could and looked behind her, not at all surprised at what she found.

The devil stared back at her, emotionless.

It hurt her neck too much to keep looking, so Madoka turned her face away and closed her eyes. It didn’t take long. Footsteps, not her own, echoed as they came closer. Each one made her cringe a little further.

The steps stopped in front of her, and waited. Madoka remained silent, testing her muscles by tensing them. But they failed; they ached and trembled. If it came down to another fight, she would be defeated before it even began. So, she did the only thing she could do, and opened her eyes to face the devil head-on.

“Homura,” she said quietly, “where are we?”

The devil, the once-magical girl, ignored her prey’s query. In a different situation, Madoka might have said Homura looked cute. She wore a black, strapless dress with gloves that went up to her upper arms and purple, diamond-patterned leggings topped off with ballet shoes. The outfit gave Homura an ethereal beauty, but the callous, inhuman gleam to those violet eyes left no illusion about what she truly was. Madoka didn’t need to see Homura’s wings to know that she was beyond any regular, or magical girl.

“Homura . . .”

Homura cut in. “I will tell you only once: release Kaname Madoka from your control, Law of Cycles.”

Madoka’s heart dropped into her stomach. She should have known this was coming. Homura had screamed the same thing at her when she first recovered her memories and powers. What followed after had been a battle that had rocked the very fabric of the universe. She assumed so, at least. Whatever Homura had done to win, it had knocked Madoka out hard enough to make her forget how the fight had actually gone.

“Homura-chan . . .” She clenched her fists, and mentally ran over words she had rehearsed a hundred times. “I am the Law of Cycles, but I am _also_ Madoka. I know you don’t want to accept it, but . . .”

“That’s enough.” Homura’s words fell over her like a stifling hand. “Will you release Madoka to me, or not?”

“That’s not possible, Homura-chan.”

For the first time since Madoka had woken, Homura flickered with an emotion: fury.

“So be it,” the devil said.

Homura walked closer. Madoka recoiled instinctively. It was a law of the universe that Akemi Homura would never hurt Kaname Madoka. But the problem was that Homura currently didn’t see her as such, but as the Law of Cycles: a being connected at the core to Madoka, but was _not_ truly Madoka. To Homura, the Law of Cycles was another creature entirely, one seeking to devour and imprison the girl whose face she wore. And Homura was not known for taking any threat to her only friend lightly.

It seemed at first that Homura would walk right past her. Her dress brushed against Madoka’s white gown in a gentle caress. But then Madoka felt cold fingers on her spine, and Homura stopped.

“I could tear her out of you,” Homura said, stroking the bone under her fingertips. “I’ve done it before.”

“Please don’t. It . . . hurts.” She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. She remembered the first time it had happened – the hot, sticky hooks digging themselves into her soul and ripping it in half; the pain that not even a goddess could endure, that made her surrender and let Homura take what she wanted.

“It’s not that difficult,” Homura continued. “No more than constructing a labyrinth. Simple, really.”

Madoka arched her back, preparing herself for what would come . . .

But nothing happened. She looked up at Homura. Homura stared back at her, head slightly to one side. There was an amused fondness on the black-haired girl’s face, like someone examining an adored, but hideous baby. Hope swelled within her; was Homura having second thoughts?

“Homura –”

For the third time, Homura didn’t let her speak. Homura shushed her, pressing her thumb against Madoka’s lips. That thumb slid down her face and under her chin, cupping it as Homura clucked her tongue. She pointed Madoka’s chin toward her, the act much gentler than the goddess could have expected.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Homura asked with what sounded like a sigh. “I don’t want to do this by force. You . . . you look just like her.”

Homura’s gaze went right through her. Madoka could see her own reflection deep within those eyes. She looked small and powerless, like a child struggling to crawl. The hem of her divine gown pooled on the floor around her, the only speck of light in this prison. Even the goldness of her eyes was diminished. Yet despite witnessing just how helpless she appeared, Madoka didn’t give up. Homura may still be refusing to recognize her as her best friend, but she was seeing _something_.

“Homura-chan,” she said, refusing to falter even as Homura watched her with those empty eyes, “please don’t do this. I need to return to my duties, but I can take you with me, and we’ll be together again for all eternity. Doesn’t that sound like a good ending?”

The echoes of her words faded into silence. Homura moved in front of her, never letting that thumb break contact. With careful grace, the black-haired girl lowered herself to her knees.

Madoka smiled, tears in her eyes. “Homura-chan . . .”

Using her thumb, Homura tilted the goddess’s chin up.

She brought their lips together.

 _Eh?_ The touch of Homura’s lips popped her vision of moving on together. Despite being a self-proclaimed demon, Homura treated her like she was made of glass. But what was she _doing_? This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen.

The shock had been great enough that Madoka hadn’t reacted. She had remained still, like a doll. However, Homura didn’t appear to have expected anything else. When she pulled away, her mouth set itself in a straight line, but the rest of her radiated satisfaction and pleasure.

“I’ve kissed her before.” Homura gave a little giggle that sounded like a record skipping. “We even dated in a few of the timelines. We never got any further though. One month is such little time . . .”

She knew. In this form, she remembered all of the timelines, probably better than Homura herself. It wasn’t fair to say that in those timelines she had loved her mysterious classmate – Homura was right: one month wasn’t enough time – but what she had felt was definitely some precursor to love. Now, in her ascended form, she loved every magical girl. But Sayaka once told her that anyone who brought up Akemi Homura could tell that their goddess viewed the black-haired girl with an affection granted to no one else.

“I know,” Madoka said. “I wish I had known then. We could have been so happy together . . . we still can be.”

But Homura was staring into the void behind her. She wasn’t listening. She waited patiently until Homura’s eyes began to focus on her again.

There wasn’t time to say anything before Homura smashed their lips together.

Her eyes widened. Spooked, she tried to jerk backwards, but Homura’s hands yanked at her hair, pulling her close. Homura lips roamed her face, placing open-mouthed kisses on her cheeks and jaw, but always returned to her mouth. The devil’s tongue flickered out, pressing insistently against Madoka’s clenched teeth.

Homura stopped. She brought their cheeks together, so that her lips were right by Madoka’s ear when she hissed, “Kiss me back.”

“Homura, you need to stop.”

“ _Kiss me back_.”

The ribbon snapped shut around her neck. A goddess shouldn’t need to breathe, but Homura had already rewritten the laws of reality once, so what was once more? The demon-disguised-as-a-girl remained emotionless as the goddess spluttered and gasped for air before her. Only when Madoka choked out a shaky agreement did the vice around her throat loosen. She panted as Homura absently petted her.

“Just do as I say,” Homura said, “and that won’t happen again.”

The goddess looked up at her captor not with fear, but with pity. Homura was having a breakdown, wasn’t she? They were rare to happen, but when they did, they always brought out passionate displays from the normally stoic girl. And what was this driven by if not some form of passion?

Homura closed in slowly. Her tongue slid into Madoka’s mouth, mapping the area even though this was far from the first kiss between them. Madoka moved her tongue against her friend’s, keeping it slow and gentle despite the intensity Homura emitted that demanded she kiss harder. Madoka wanted to keep this as calm as possible, and give Homura time to recover her true self.

They parted once more. Madoka searched the other girl’s face, looking for some sign of recognition. All she saw though was Homura’s half-smile as the black-haired girl studied her neck. Homura leaned in, and Madoka felt her breath against the skin there –

She yelped as teeth unexpectedly drew blood.

Homura chuckled at her reaction. The devil’s tongue swished over the wound, lapping up the blood. She drew back one more, smirking as she touched the brand she had left on the goddess’s flesh.

“You even act like the real thing,” Homura said.

“Homura-chan?” Her skin prickled as color drained from her face. She had made a horrible mistake. Rather than bringing the other girl to her senses, playing along had brought Homura down further. The black-haired girl smiled now, but it was a smile with too much teeth showing – a wolfish smile. A demonic smile. Her hands were no longer tender as they handled her prisoner, but harsh and possessive. And that emotion lighting up her face could only be described as insanity.

Homura suddenly stood. She walked past Madoka, and the pink-haired goddess released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

Homura’s hand settled on her back again. Only it was placed lower than the previous time. _Much_ lower.

“Homura . . . wh-what are you doing?” Her voice was so weak and feeble, she almost didn’t recognize it as her own.

“I’ve only ever kissed her,” Homura said dreamily. As if she were half-dead. “I was never allowed to go any further. Not with her, anyways. I have all the time in the world now, but this Madoka – the one I’ll save from _you_ – is intimidated by me. She is kind, of course. She always is. But I don’t expect her to seek a relationship with me.”

“That’s not true, Homura. I -”

“This may be the closest I get to ever having her.”

Homura’s words trickled into her brain slowly, like molasses. But when they did, her blood ran icy-cold. She couldn’t mean . . . Homura wouldn’t do that. Homura would never hurt her!

But she remembered once more that she wasn’t Kaname Madoka to Homura, but the otherworldly Law of Cycles.

Her magic exploded out of her, reducing the ribbons trapping her to shreds. Homura grunted as the power forced her back. Madoka’s rose-tipped bow burst into her hands, and she whirled around –

But her body failed her, and a sharp pain in her side threw her arm off-track as she tried to draw her bowstring. In that split second, an ebony arrow flashed by and snapped the bow in two. Her eyes followed the top half of her broken weapon as it flung skyward –

Another arrow impaled the ground in front of her, not even an inch away.

Standing, hair whipping about in an impossible wind, bow strung with a third arrow, Homura spoke to her in a tone that could freeze the sun. “The next one goes through you.”

“You’d kill me?”

“As long as I leave your Soul Gem intact, you’ll survive,” Homura pointed out. “Technically, I wouldn’t even be hurting you.”

Madoka stared. The ground stirred under her – she’d realized that it was really made of Homura’s ribbons. They crawled up her arms and legs, seeking to anchor her to the spot as they had been doing when she first woke up. She lurched back, clawing at them, charging her hands with magic –

Homura loosed her bow.

She didn’t _quite_ keep her promise. The arrow came straight at her, but exploded with a purple flash right when Madoka’s eyes had to cross to see it. The shockwave flung her backwards and the ribbon-made ground – not at all soft – sprung up to catch her. It snapped shut around her neck and torso like a bear trap, squeezing out what little air remained in her lungs.

“Maybe I can’t bring myself to shoot you, but your _secretaries_ are fair game. It’s because of Miki and Momoe, after all, that this happened,” Homura said, smooth as velvet. “Get rid of your weapon, or I’ll go find them right now.”

“Homura,” she choked, “ _please_ -!” Her chest _burned_. She kept trying to swallow instinctively, her body hoping that the shifting would move the ribbons long enough for her to breathe.

“ _Do it_!”

A second away from passing out, Madoka let her bow fade.

For the next ten seconds, the only sound was Madoka’s gasps. The ribbons, while tight, allowed her to breathe. Homura kept her bow trained, until time convinced her that the goddess had no tricks up her sleeve. She dismissed her weapon then, walked over confidently, and pushed Madoka back over onto her stomach as ebony ribbons wrapped around her limbs.

“Don’t fight anymore.” Homura said that with such weariness that for a moment, Madoka was able to delude herself into thinking the other girl cared. That faded quickly when Homura slipped off her gloves.

She sniffled. Neither her wrists nor ankles could move anymore. Homura’s ribbons had secured her wrists on either side of her head, while also forcing her legs apart. The ribbons dug into her skin, ready to squeeze at any hint of resistance. She couldn’t do anything as Homura moved behind her, reached under her gown and tore off her panties . . .

It was her first time, and that betrayed itself in a surprised squeak when Homura’s fingers first touched her. The devil poked and prodded, searching, exploring, her own actions not entirely experienced either. Madoka bit the inside of her cheek. Despite the terror bubbling under her skin and the prayer on loop within her mind, as Homura’s fingers rubbed and explored the space between her folds, her body grew heated. It became more and more uncomfortable as Homura stroked and fondled her, and she wished she had something to squeeze –

She mewed as a finger slipped inside her.

“See?” Homura said as she began to pump. “It isn’t that bad. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.”

“Homura, please! Stop! I don’t want to . . .! Ngh . . .”

“Are you so sure about that?” Homura asked as she watched her prey squirm.

Madoka’s first plead turned out to be the only one that Homura responded to. The rest fell on deaf ears as Homura painstakingly set to work, using Madoka’s reactions and whimpers as a guide. One finger was joined by a second, then a third. None of them pushed in deep at first, but despite Madoka’s best efforts to thrash and kick, she couldn’t dislodge them and more kept slipping in. She was losing on all fronts: Homura was ignoring her, she couldn’t move, and her body was responding with a sensation she barely understood.

She lost track of time. Homura continued to work her with the same single-minded determination that had carried her through failed timeline after timeline. As the fingers groped and reached inside her, Madoka buried her face in her forearm. Her throat had grown dry and itchy from begging so she didn’t bother. She didn’t even bother to stifle the odd moan that came from her. She only tried to detach herself, as Sayaka was able to do, so that she couldn’t feel anything.

At some point, she became aware of a pressure building up inside her. It was obstructive and loud and demanded that she pay attention. And it felt . . . _good_. She shifted as much as she could, as if she could walk away and leave that feeling behind. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want to like any of this. Homura was . . . she was . . . she was _hurting_ her, and it wasn’t supposed to feel good.

The pressure continued to build. White dots danced before her as she arched, ready to explode. She could no longer deny what she was feeling, and tears gathered in her eyes once more. What was wrong with her? What kind of sick, perverse _thing_ was she to find pleasure in this? She didn’t want this, but she didn’t even have enough self-control to prove that.

Her mind went hazy as she approached her endurance’s limit. She actually pushed back against Homura’s hand to try to spur the other girl into shoving her over. Her heart beat furiously; her breaths had become more frequent to accommodate. She knew she was on the brink. She was so close –

Homura pulled away.

Surprised, relieved, she looked back at Homura. The smile she got now didn’t involve teeth, but was still sinister.

“You were about to cum, weren’t you?” Homura said. Madoka found it embarrassing how she flinched at the lewd word. “Do you want me to let you finish?”

Madoka shook her head.

As requested, Homura sat back. That was a good thing, yet she still felt uncomfortable. The pressure didn’t feel good anymore. Instead, it drove her to grind her hips into the ground and to try to rub her thighs together, in need of some kind of friction. But the restraints kept her legs spread and in the end, she couldn’t do much but wait the urge out.

She didn’t know how long it took, but the yearning cooled off. Just when she thought it was over, she felt Homura reaching under her gown. Her protest was brushed off with the point that, “I agreed not to let you finish. I haven’t.” Once again, Homura brought her to the brink. Once again, she pulled out until Madoka settled down.

She did it again and _again_.

The fifth time she felt Homura’s fingers retreating, she snapped. If the volume at which she shouted ‘ _Stop it!_ ’ shocked the demon, she didn’t show it. But Homura didn’t pull out this time, and let those fingers linger. They rubbed circles in Madoka’s flesh.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I promised you would enjoy it,” Homura said robotically. She tilted her head to one side. “Now, I will ask again: do you want me to let you finish?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure if that had been actual speech, or a sob.

When Homura pulled her fingers out again, Madoka thought the other girl didn’t hear her. But Homura spoke quickly. “I will loosen the restraints on your ankles. Get on your hands and knees.”

Madoka listened, and immediately hated herself for it.

Homura sat up, wrapping one arm around Madoka’s midsection. The other hand reached, and Homura thrust her fingers inside harder and deeper than any time before. Madoka hadn’t been prepared, and gasped.

It happened quickly. She was so close to the brink that it didn’t take much for Homura to push her over. She whined long and deep in her throat as the waves of heat and pleasure overtook her, pulsing throughout her soul. Homura hugged her tighter, bringing their bodies flush against each other. She continued to pump hard and deep, making her prisoner’s bliss last as long as possible.

When Homura felt her go limp, she finally let go. She moved back in front of Madoka, sitting on folded legs as she watched the panting, whimpering goddess sprawled out on the floor. The devil looked more bored than aroused. Even as she lifted her drenched hand, she acted like this was a perfectly normal occurrence. On the other hand, Madoka took one look at that shiny hand, and turned red.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” the devil said.

Madoka chose not to answer. Had she . . . had she really just done that? Had she really _asked_ for it? What was _wrong_ with her? She didn’t . . . she hadn’t . . . so why . . .?

“Now it’s _my_ turn.” Homura ran her tongue over the words.

“You want me to . . .?”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Homura stood. “Stay on your hands and knees.”

Madoka watched her, not understanding what was about to happen. Just before the black-haired girl disappeared from view, her Soul Gem appeared above her flat palm. The goddess didn’t need to wonder why; she got her answer a couple of seconds later when something cool and hard pressed up against her entrance.

“Homura? Homura, no! _No, no!_ Please don’t! Homura, please!”

It seemed as though she would listen. At least Homura wasn’t pushing the Soul Gem ahead any further.

Madoka sobbed. “Homura, please! _It’s me, Madoka!_ Can’t you see that? . . .”

“Don’t bother.”

Homura didn’t bother with a charade of gentleness this time. She rammed the Soul Gem into her captive, and it went further than any of her fingers had gone in a split second. Madoka shrieked, pulling so hard at her restraints she thought she might dislocate her arms. It _hurt_. It slid in easily enough, but the Soul Gem had ridges and edges that caught on her flesh. Her cry though paled in comparison to Homura’s massive, rattling breath. Whatever sensation the Soul Gem felt was powerful enough to stun the devil. She slumped over Madoka’s back, unable to stay upright.

“Homura,” Madoka whispered through her tears, “please stop.”

Homura wrapped her free arm around Madoka’s hips, and squeezed.

Despite her earlier promise that Madoka would enjoy this, there was no trace of that goal now. The first few thrusts could have been considered cautious, but any care was swiftly lost as Homura lost herself in her rapture. She gasped Madoka’s name and groaned so loud that she may not have even heard Madoka’s cries of pain; it felt like her insides were being rubbed raw with sandpaper. The goddess tried to flatten herself against the ground, to curl up into a ball and hide, but Homura squeezed harder and kept Madoka’s hips up high.

The devil climaxed much earlier than Madoka had, but it still lasted forever. When Homura came, she threw her head back with a wild cry that was more animal than human. She slumped against Madoka’s back afterwards, struggling to breathe, sweat dripping off her exposed skin and sinking into Madoka’s gown at irregular intervals. Her Soul Gem remained inside the wounded goddess, throbbing.

“Madoka . . . Madoka . . .” She wasn’t positive, but it almost sounded like Homura was crying.

There wasn’t much to do but wait it out. Finally, Homura yanked her Soul Gem free and let Madoka collapse to the ground. On her knees, Homura studied the fallen goddess; blood seeped through the cloth near her thighs, and the pink-haired girl was crying so hard her face started to turn blue.

Something flickered across Homura’s face.

“Madoka.” Her voice wobbled. “We need to go home.”

“H-Homura . . .”

Homura grabbed her face. Red-hot hooks sunk into her soul, ready to tear her apart –

Madoka closed her eyes, and let go.

* * *

Madoka screamed. The sound bounced around her colourful bedroom. She blinked several times, trying to clear her vision until she realized it wasn’t her eyes, and that it was dark because it was still night.

What happened? There wasn’t just tears staining her pyjamas, but dark sweat stains. She felt cold all over, as if her bed had been made of ice. Did she have a nightmare? It certainly seemed like she had, if the little flashes of black and purple meant anything. It must have been a really bad one because she was still shaking. But it was just a dream, and –

Her neck was bleeding.


End file.
